


Hello, Reader.

by Random_Inked_Thoughts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Confessions, Crying, Crying Castiel, Crying Dean Winchester, Death, Gore, I'm Sorry, Insanity, Jealousy, Killing, Knives, Love Confessions, M/M, Plot Twists, Suspense, Torture, confession letter, self hatred, seriously, so much blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-05-24 00:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Inked_Thoughts/pseuds/Random_Inked_Thoughts
Summary: Castiel has always had admirers, secret and not. This story is his secret/not so secret admirer's confession letter, about the night he killed Castiel. Told completely from the POV of an unknown narrator, revealed at the end.-He didn’t remember how I got there, covered in blood and tears, only one of which was my own. He didn’t even remember why I was crying in the first place, but I can tell you why.-Extras: Other notes from the asylum vaults: between 250-500 words.





	1. Hello, Reader

Hello to those that stumbled upon this, those craving answers, or just those just foolish enough to want to read this,

 

He didn’t remember how I got there, covered in blood and tears, only one of which was my own. He didn’t even remember why I was crying in the first place, but I can tell you why. Every time I blinked, I could only see electric blue eyes. His whole body ached, but most of all, his heart. I could remember most of the fragments, even piece them together, a scream here, a splash of blood there. What he can’t remember was the most important part- who the hell was Castiel? I’ll do my best to explain to you.

 

This is what happened:

 

I should start at the beginning. 

 

I’ve always been a part of this man’s life, ever since he used to hunt monsters. I guess I did too. He’s moved past that, but I still have all kinds of trouble with it. Sometimes, I find myself looking for monsters in places they aren’t, and I have killed more than a few innocents in my time. 

 

Please don’t ask me to remember, He hates it when I bring up old memories like that. (But just between you and I, I’ve enjoyed every single person.) 

 

Of the two of us, he’s definitely been the one with the better shot at a normal life, and I would be lying if I told you I resented him for that.

 

Now that you know the background, I can move on to the main story. 

 

It was an average, normal day, their first in a while. The man had woken up late, making his way to the kitchen slowly, making sure not to wake his sleeping partner. I couldn’t see him yet today, but my heart beat faster even as I thought of him. He was wasted on this man, this man who used to wake up early, dress himself in federal suits, and play pretend. The man who used to sleep in motel beds and cots. He didn’t need to anymore, not since my angel had fallen.

 

My angel slept quite late now that he was human, since he had fallen. I had been watching him for a while, even before that, since about when he had made his way into this other man’s life. That was fine. The man let him sleep late, slipping out of bed quietly, which I approved of. Anything for my angel.

 

He had poured himself coffee, and sat down at their table, still blinking sleep from his eyes. The first morning light was making its way through their windows, and some birds were chirping outside. He found it pleasant, I found it unnecessary. 

 

He was greeted a few moments later by a raven haired angel- my raven haired angel. My angel sat down, laughing and joking with him, his cheeks turning a rosy pink as he did. Light, but visible, the blush spread down his neck to his chest. I longed to stroke him, to hold him in my arms. The man combed his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, made one last quip, and stood up to go. A ring sparkled on his finger. He blew a kiss. A stab of jealousy.

 

Slinging his dark jacket over his shoulder, he began his walk to the market. I followed him, always following him, but don’t worry. I made sure to stay just out of sight, at the very edge of his vision.

 

He made his way carefully through all of the aisles, picking out assorted foods, most of them junky. He seemed to be following a routine, the way he mechanically chose each item, placing them in a small cart. It was red, I remember that.

 

From there, he made his way to the counter. He paid for the food with a crumpled wad of fives, the one on the top had a tear on the upper right corner. I can remember that the cashier looked about twenty, maybe a college kid, and that his nametag said “Alfie.” He seemed to be a good kid, but you can never tell these days. 

 

Thank you for shopping at Giant.

 

The man took his groceries and left, carrying the bag in his left hand. He made his way back to his house, setting the groceries down to open the door, and setting down the food for good on the counter, once inside. The blue eyed man practically flew into the room to meet him, skidding across the floor to envelop him in an affectionate hug. But no, my angel couldn’t fly anymore. The man chuckled, rubbing his deep black hair affectionately. 

 

I loved this man. He was  _ my _ angel. 

 

Another stab of jealousy. 

 

Dialogue. The men were speaking now. I could wait. The windowsill was covered in tiny dust bunnies. They hadn’t swept in too long.

 

“Are you going to make me dinner out of pop tarts and beer?” 

 

“Of course not, Angel. Don’t be silly.”

 

The two of them set to work in the kitchen then, grabbing other food and beginning to prepare it. They took out random foods, whatever was left in the fridge, really. The black haired man kissed his cheek as he passed once more, and he was happy.    
  
I just wanted him to be happy. I swear.

 

They threw together the best dinner that they could, and this next bit gets a little bit fuzzy, but I remember that my angel cut his finger when he was chopping up an orange pepper. The blood welled up around the edges of the cut and spilled over, and my angel let out a short cry of pain, cradling his palm.

 

It was beautiful. I was transfixed. The way the deep red pooled around him, dripping down the curve of his hand and into the crevices of his bent palm was majestic. The whimpers of pain he was making were simply musical. I couldn’t do more than stare in fascination.

 

Meanwhile, he began to make soothing noises, cooing softly to my raven haired angel, helping to bandage his finger, to hide the blood from me. He kissed away the tears in my angel’s eyes, and he finished the dinner. This man did not cut himself, but I had a wish that he would do worse than that before the night was over. You can’t tell anyone I told you that, though!

 

They ate dinner together, as they always did, and it was simply coated with small affectionate touches and gestures, as it always was. 

 

They went to bed that night, curled up in each other’s arms, but I made sure to stay awake until their labored breathing evened out. And that’s when the fun started. 

 

Pushing the blankets from the bed, I straddled my angel’s waist, I looked down at his sleeping face for the last time. He would never need sleep again when I was done with him. 

 

Slowly, I pulled the knife from the kitchen, unfortunately no longer covered in his blood, but I would soon cleanse it again soon enough. My angel stirred once more in his sleep, making a soft noise. I paused. 

 

“Dean?” 

 

He murmured this sleepily, his eyes flitting open briefly. When he saw me instead, his eyes, my angel’s beautiful eyes, widened and he cried out once more, beginning to struggle, but “Dean” stayed asleep.

 

“Dean!” 

 

I began to slowly trace his jawline with the flat of the blade, enjoying the slight whimpers it coaxed forth. He struggled some more, crying out for his love, but he still did not wake. My angel was powerless against me, just the way I liked, and his futile calling was only angering me. 

 

I finally drew blood, a small cut across his cheekbone, and he cried out louder than the last. I paused at this. Dean was not waking up. 

 

Slowly, I crawled my way up his body, lapping at the blood welling up along his cheekbone, enjoying the small whimpers of fear. He sounded delicious. 

 

I sliced more and more, hearing his cries grow in volume and frequency as I did, relishing the fact that I was the one to make him cry out like that, relishing his panic. I never cut too deep, however. Oh no. I didn’t want my angel to lose his stamina this early into the night. 

 

This was heaven. His blood was nectar, his whimpers, the chorus of actual angels. 

 

His arms were breeding lightly, his shoulders slightly more, but I really spent time on his face and neck. If it took a thousand cuts for him to say he loved me back, then a thousand cuts it would be.

 

I finally felt we needed that deeper connection. I sliced open his shirt, moving past his bloodied face, giving it a few bruises along the way for decoration.

 

Yes, purple was definitely his color.

 

But it was, unfortunately time for the main event. My angel’s time with me was sadly drawing to a close. Don’t worry, reader. I would cherish these moments forever.

 

My angel was past crying for his “Dean,” and his eyes were glazed over. He still was making those delightful whimpers, but all of the fight seemed to have leaked out of him, along with most of his blood. This was delightful progress, and I felt a bit of pride, admiring my handiwork for a moment more. 

 

Now, I began tracing around his stomach, not with the knife, but with one of my fingers. The soft feeling of his breathing was only bettered by his occasional whimpers of pain as my fingernail pushed too deep into his stomach. Beautiful. He was simply beautiful.

 

I was never much one for foreplay, so I got right into it, slicing deeper than before, watching the skin part before me with an unchecked fascination. Peeling back his skin was one of the most enjoyable feelings I’ve ever felt. The blood all just gushed to the surface, and the inside of his skin was smooth and wet, and  _ his.  _ I leaned down and kissed all along the edge of the cut. 

 

There, all better.

 

I began to coo softly, a cruel imitation of his earlier comforting noises. Silent tears now streamed down my angel’s cheeks, and I kissed those away too. His face was a pale white, under the caked on blood. 

 

I love you.

 

When I finally reached his heart, the bed was dripping in red, we were swimming in it, him and Dean and everything. His eyes were open, wide and lifeless, his limbs sprawled haphazardly across the bed, and completely covered in cuts of all different sizes, and I could see his ring glint as well, in the moonlight. It bounced around the whole room, illuminating him, me, my crimes, all of it. 

 

I’m sorry.

 

We were gushing red, swimming in it. My angel was dead, and I was dying inside. His heart lay beside me, and I lay on him. I would lay there with my angel until daylight broke upon us, and cops stormed the house, and found me there, sobbing over my angel’s dead body. 

 

I went without struggle. There was no point not to.    
  


My lawyer ended up pleading insanity. I suppose it is for the best. The food is decent, and everything is white, but I can’t help but wish for one more moment with my fallen angel.

 

Perhaps I was too hasty. Perhaps I should not have opened him up that quickly. I can only speculate now. 

 

That is my story now.

 

I don’t think you need to tell me who Castiel was anymore, my dear reader. I think I know. I never meant it to turn out that way. I suppose, sometimes, I just feel too much, and I need to make it stop. I didn’t mean for it to be him, I never wanted it to be him. He was just there.

 

Jealousy and self hatred hatred are ugly things, reader. Don’t ever succumb to them. Cherish your loved ones while they last, and in their final moments, let them know they are loved. Let your angels fly. 

 

And now I remember everything

 

All the best,

 

-Dean Winchester

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It was a quiet day. Charlie had been able to finish up her paperwork early, and so she decided to pay a visit to her girlfriend. She walked down the white halls, heels clicking on the markle. Finally she reached the door. Walking in, she saw Dorothy’s back was to her, and she was hunched over something, like she was reading it. She walked over as quietly as she could.

 

“What’s that?” Charlie rested her head on Dorothy’s shoulder to better look at the object she was holding. It was a piece of paper, made out as a letter. 

 

“Oh, nothing, just going through some of Dean’s old writings,” Dorothy said, re-folding up the letter and opening the drawer. “It always did seem to give him some closure…” Inside, there lay several dozen slips of paper, some of them fully thought out letters, others just two words repeated over and over. 

 

Dorothy was the nurse assigned personally to Dean Winchester, and she had taken it upon herself to learn all there was to know about him, and most importantly, why he broke. Charlie doubted she’d find answers.

 

Charlie smiled a sad smile at that, looking into the padded room, where their longest residing patient sat, staring dully at the wall. His arms were wrapped in a straightjacket now, and his eyes were dulled more and more each year he spent with the knowledge of his own actions. He was a horrible, train wreck of a man, but everyone had a breaking point. Still… It never hurt to wonder what it was...

 

Dean’s eyes still stared at the white wall, looking, but not seeing, in horrifying silence. He was screaming it. His voice was raw from those two words. He was telling him, his voice increasing in volume, a terrifying crescendo, even as he sat there.

 

I’m sorry. 

 

_ I’m sorry.  _

 

**_I’m sorry._ **

 

He wasn't making a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so like, I should explain. The admirer is Dean's insanity, his fear, self loathing, and internalized love for Cas. Dean gave it a whole separate personality, to keep the guilt from himself. I felt like Dean would also be a little messed up after his whole life (the family business) and after some mild speculation, this fic was born.


	2. Red

**Seven months previous, in the asylum records. Label: Red**

Castiel? Nothing more than a flash of blue, of raven black hair. Yet, I feel a certain draw to the name, one I can’t seem to describe myself. Was he a brother? A Father? Was he even someone I knew personally?

Perhaps he was my first kill. I can’t remember much, though I do remember a tall man named John. I must have been six or seven at the time, maybe younger. He handed me a silver bullet, told me to shoot whatever came at me. I don’t remember acquiring the gun.

Silver, like the shiny door. I can’t see much of it from where I sit now, though I assume on the other side of the building, they have a man that can only see silver. Everything in here is white. It’s not unpleasant, simply blinding. Pure. Is that who Castiel is? The first man I saved?

It’s not uncommon, I have to kill every monster that springs up in this hellscape. As far as lives saved by my hand, I used to think they outweighed those lost. Now I’m not so sure. Every face, every name, they all blur together. All that’s left is the blood.

The blood coats everything I look at. The red masterpiece is stunning, shiny, and gloopy, and almost so realistic it can fool even me. But I know real blood when I see it, when I taste it. Maybe that’s why they locked me up here, with these fluffy walls and this pretty jacket. I can’t remember… But it seems that not everyone sees blood covering every object, every floor and ceiling, every person. Maybe they locked me up because of the blood I see every time I look down at my hands. Is that normal?

So many questions, so little time. I keep asking, but am I really asking them?

They never answer me anymore, so I never answer them. Every month, a man with long brown hair walks through, sits behind a glass wall. They linger in the back of the room, the shadows, as he speaks into a tiny phone. It’s comically small. I laugh sometimes, but he never laughs with me. No sense of humor?

He calls himself Sam.

His flannel is always plaid.

He tells me he loves me, and leaves.

Another hint to my past, perhaps. He seems to care desperately about my situation. It’s cute really, the way he’ll beg for me to confess. Confess what, Samuel? He’ll cry sometimes, silent tears trickling down his cheeks as I sit there giggling against the bloodstained glass.

This is my only “visitation.” They don’t even come in to feed me. The food is cold and unsatisfactory. Sometimes, they’ll whisper, _eat up_. Soft voice, female.

A hesitation at the door, shuffling of nervous feet. Finally, she’ll leave.

I wonder how they’ll get the blood out of all this white? Do they even want to? Can you really wipe out that much red? It would be better just to cover the rest of it. I tried to help once, stabbed myself with a pencil during one of my little writing sessions here. Now I can only use crayons.

They call these “confession sessions.” Catchy, right? At first, I didn’t know what to write, but it’s freeing, the way your words may become immortalized. Almost like the red. It’s all I can ever see. My constant companion.

Red is a beautiful color. The color of dawn, the color of roses, the color of love and passion and devotion. The color of angels. The color of my angel.

My angel?

Cas?

I don’t know why I said that, please forgive me. It was a lapse in judgement.

My hour is almost up, they’ll take away my crayon soon. It’s red as well. Red as the dawn.

My life seems to be coated in red. My hands are dripping in it. My arms are covered. It’s to my left, to my right, all around me. The metallic scent of it never leaves my nose.

And I love it.


	3. Personal Evaluation

Patient Name: Dean Winchester

 

Gender: Male

 

Height/Weight: 6’1” 183 lbs

 

Diagnosis: Delusional Disorder,  Post-traumatic stress disorder, schizophrenia, Dissociative identity disorder, Antisocial Personality Disorder

  
  


Personal Doctor Dorothy Baum’s Analysis: Dean is an fascinating patient. His brain activity spikes more often and with higher serotonin levels than any other depressed patient on record. He also appears to distinguish “himself” from Dean Winchester. Some days, he is completely silent, others, he won’t stop speaking. Mostly, he is incoherent, though occasionally, he speaks with crystal clarity, his eyes bright and his posture professional. He refers to himself as a different person occasionally, and seems to have divided his brain into at least two completely different sections of memories. He has no recollection of his family or past, to the best of our knowledge. We have began to allow weekly writing sessions at his brother’s request, though after a possible suicide incident involving a pencil, he is now only allowed crayons. It appears that he finds some solace in his writing, though the works are quite chilling. He speaks of death and murder fondly, suicide even more so. It is my belief that we have not learned all that there is to learn about Dean Winchester, and I believe that further testing to evaluate his psyche would provide more affirmative results, as well as a clearer diagnosis as to the extent of his mental instabilities.


	4. White

**Found in the asylum records. Label: White**

 

Cas,

 

Everything here was white in the beginning. 

 

I’m sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. I think I’ll choose to reflect with tonight’s session. They asked me silly questions today. My name, my age, if I remembered what I’d done. Of course I did! They even asked me about you, Cas. 

 

I can remember every second about it. 

 

I didn’t mean to do it, I couldn’t stop myself. It was like an out of body experience, ya know? I couldn’t stop myself, I swear. You have to believe me.

 

I’m nothing without you. Nothing, like the nothingness that splashes against my walls. Nothing, like the taste of the mush that they feed us here. Nothing, like what your eyes saw, as they stared straight ahead in the moonlight that night. Nothing.

 

It really hurts, Cas. I can still see you, stark against the white walls of my prison, if I only close my eyes. And the blood. Always the blood. 

 

But today, it’s only the white.

 

Like maggots, the white is. It worms its way into the corners of your vision. All I can see is the white today, Cas. At least it’s better than the red. 

 

It’s blinding me. I can’t deal with it, with what I’ve done. I can’t see past it, Cas. All I can see is the white. The white of the walls. The white of the floor. The white of my jacket. Even the white of the paper. I can hear it calling to me, but I can’t reach the light, Cas. 

 

It’s teasing me, flitting around the corners of my vision. Her calls are joyous, but only in the knowledge that I am confined here, and she is not. 

 

It’s warm with her, it’s safe with her. I just want to touch the light, let it take me in. She won’t let me. She must understand what I want, what I crave with every breath of white bleached air I breathe in while I sit in this death tainted place. I want to die. I need to die.

 

The white is calling to me again, Cas. Please.

 

Please let me die.

 

_Doctor's note: Dean Winchester is no longer allowed the use of pencils during his writing sessions._


	5. Sorry

**Found in the asylum records. Label: Sorry**

 

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m just _so sorry._

 

_What did I do?_

 

It doesn’t matter, does it? I’m sorry and they’re sorry and you’re sorry and he’s sorry an she’s sorry. We’re all just so sorry but I can’t explain why. Every time I say these words, it’s like a blow to the stomach.

 

I deserve it.

 

_I’m sorry._

 

It won’t change anything, will it? Can we change what we say with soft words like small band aids? Little touches of concern as we mourn? Can we patch the wound, the distrust, simply with the insignificant gestures that are _sorry?_ Can we really block out the past, cover it with a blanket of security, of meaningless white noise?

 

_I can’t remember what I did but I am so incredibly sorry._

 

Is this what self hatred feels like, or is that just everyone else’s hate for me? I can’t even tell anymore.

 

The more you say the word, the less meaning it has, you see?

 

Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry I love you sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry I love you sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry

 

Does it even sound like a word anymore?

 

No. I suppose not. And band aids don’t fix a knife wound straight to the chest either. They don’t fix walls bathed in blood. They don’t fix anything at all.

 

But that doesn’t change anything. And it never will.

 

_I’m so sorry._


	6. Blue

**Found in the asylum records. Label: Blue**

 

blue

/blo͞o/

_adjective_

  1. of a color intermediate between green and violet, as of the sky or sea on a sunny day.
  2. "the clear blue sky"



 

They gave me a dictionary once, the people who work here. They told me I had five minutes, supervised. It took me about thirty seconds to remember that I had asked for it. Even to today, I have no idea why I did.

 

So I flipped through this book, thinking _Sam would like this,_ and I came across this word. Yes, I know it’s a pretty obvious word, being an integral part of our daily life, something we see whether we like to or not, but now that I think about it, I can’t remember the last time I truly saw anything blue.

 

I see blue every night.

 

I’ve been here so long, I can’t remember what it looks like. I think of the sky, but all I can conjure up is a void, a void that sucks everything into it. I think of violet, of green, but who am I to tell I have not mixed the two of them up.

 

I wish I could stop seeing blue.

 

I suppose I could have asked Sam, but there’s a part of my pride that makes me refuse. I don’t know why. Has he ever worn blue when he came to see me? I can’t remember.

 

The walls are white (or red, if it’s a bad day), the floor is white, they wear all white, and my mind is blank. Whenever I close my eyes, that’s the only time I can ever see the blue. It’s the blue of his eyes. They follow me.

 

Please stop following me.

 

His eyes are like crystals, shining in the moonlight. I can see them, empty of life, yet full of agony. I can see them everywhere I go, not that I have very far to go in this place. Sometimes judgemental, sometimes compassionate, sometimes crinkled in anger. Always a stark, crystal blue.

 

I don’t think I ever want to see blue again, when I see so much of it already.


	7. Written Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm currently writing a chapter for Four Letters, (my fluffy Destiel soulmate story) to be released tomorrow, and nothing is sounding right. So I took a break. Nothing big, just five minutes. This was the piece that came out of it. I'm weirdly proud of it.

**Found in the asylum records. Label: Written Word**

 

Why do I even write to you, Cas? It’s not like I could properly articulate the feelings welling up beneath my skin with mere words. It’s not like I could say anything to get you to understand. My safe haven is supposed to be here, with “you,” but if I can’t even explain myself to you properly, why would you listen? 

 

Are you even real? 

 

Were you even real? 

 

Does it even matter? 

 

All of this is crap. People come here and they never leave. It’s lonely, and it’s dark, and it’s scary. The way everything is so bright all of the time, it’s dark. And I’m terrified. 

 

I used to feel better after writing to you. I used to think I could write all of my sins away. With enough flowery adjectives and beautifully deceptive wordplay, I thought I could conceal my true nature. 

 

Now, as I go back and read through my old writing, my old pages of lies, I see the repeating pattern of a man who thinks that he’s something that he’s not. I see a man who thought he could hide behind deceit, only to find that he’s a failure at the one thing he thought he could do. 

 

I see the way my sentences mismatch, I see all of my flaws and insecurities written out before me, a deception to none other than myself. It’s like my whole world shatters around me, when I read back through everything that I’ve written. 

 

Nothing is good enough. None of it at all. It doesn’t make sense,  _ I don’t make sense.  _ Why would I say these things when I mean them too much and not at all? Why would I embellish these flaws with extra words? Am I just striving to leave a mark? Am I trying too hard? It hurts, Cas, when I read back through, when I see just how terrible I am, all spelled out for me. It’s like they wrapped it all up like a little present for me. All of my flaws. And a little bow on top.

 

You’d do best to forget me.

 

Oh, wait...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, just a little bit of my frustration vented in the best way I know how. If you guys would be even more amazing than you are already and want to check out Four Letters (as well as watch me grow as a writer over the course of literally a year), I will be posting the one year anniversary celebration chapter thing tomorrow. Please give it a read if you have the time. I've gotta get back to finishing that up now. Thank you all so much, and hope you enjoyed the chapter! :D


	8. Love Lost

****

**Found in the asylum records. Label: Love Lost**

Sammy came to visit me again this weekend, spoke to me in his low voice. He always whispers such sweet lies to me, those of love, of bonds. Of companionship. Love for me, love for  _ you,  _ love that you can not return and I will not return. Love.

It’s unrequited love, I suppose. But what exactly  _ is  _ unrequited love? Why does it eat away at us, destroy who we are deep inside? Why do we let it shape our actions, let it run wild with our emotions? Why don’t we just let go of what we can’t have, what we may never have? Why can’t we just let go and see other parts of life?

It doesn’t make any sense to me. Love is just an excuse, you know. An excuse to keep this pathetic species a reason to reproduce. But if that was the case, we all would love one another regardless of any outside factors, and only in one way. There would be no ties to family, like Sam speaks of, there would be nothing that would keep one from disowning another. There would be none of what we would assume to be love, only lust.

What makes something so desirable the moment we can’t have it?

I certainly haven’t found out yet, and I’ve been chasing it for ages in the simple form of  _ you _ . Yet this feeling never ceases. It burns, it craves, and it dictates. It erodes at me, it consumes my thoughts, yet I still wonder why it is at all that we may love in the first place. Sam says the purest love that can be is that that was once but will never again be requited, that of a love lost. 

And yet, I don’t feel pure. 

Big surprise.


	9. Expectations

**Found in the asylum records. Label: Expectations**

 

Cas.

 

I have this overwhelming urge. I can’t stop it. I have to write too much and too little all at once. It’s never enough, it’s too much. It’s not what people want, it’s boring, it’s not the right piece. It doesn’t speak to them. It’s never good enough for them, even if it’s just done for me. I can’t write down all I see and all I see I write down, but I never do it right. It's the only thing I'm good at.

 

This is my one chance to express myself, in days locked away with padded rooms and padded hearts. I feel like the emotions just come flowing out and out and out and I can’t hold them back much longer. I have to write everything down. I never meet their expectations and I never meet mine. Nothing’s good enough, and everything’s too good to change. 

 

In the end, none of it matters.

 

These are the ramblings of a crazy, deluded man. A man who thought he could be something he was not, a man who sees the hope in everything and squashes it himself. A man who tries too hard and not at all. Me.

 

I have to write it all down. I have to write everything down.

 

You have blue eyes. You have black hair. It sticks up when you run your fingers through it. You have the body of a man I don’t love, but you are inside and I love you more than ever. You can’t seem to stop quirking your eyebrows at every little thing that amuses you. You have the most creativity. You always speak the most passionately, and you are the most opinionated man I have ever met. You have the biggest heart of any man I’ve ever met.

 

Oh who am I kidding? 

 

The only one of those things that you still have is my love for you, and you don’t even want that.

 

Didn’t meet expectations once again.


	10. Entitlement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, apparently I wrote this part a while back and never posted it? Wow I'm so glad I'm so on top of things. :/

**Found in the asylum records. Label: Entitlement**

 

Hello everyone and welcome to a peice that I don’t know what to write for! I have an hour, so… I don't know. The words aren’t flowing for today. It doesn’t make sense. I had ideas, but now… I guess I just don’t anymore? 

  
I sound like I’m drunk. 

 

Not that I’m not drunk. Okay just kidding, there’s no way that they would let me have alcohol in here anyway. Oh well… I couldn’t think of a better time for them to supply it. But they won’t. And why not? I think I’ve deserved it, after all of this! It’s not like killing you was super difficult, or anything, but I’ve put all of this time into evading the authorities, I could easily leave if I tried!    
  
I deserve something, anything, for my efforts! It was difficult to plan out, at the least, though definitely my most satisfying kill, if I do say so myself. The way you writhed under me… the sounds… it was all so very satisfying. 

 

Despite this, the system took me, took me to a place where my skills could no longer be utilized, took me to a place where nothing makes sense, a place where I don’t get anything. 

 

I might not be entitled to much, but shouldn’t I at least get credit for this? If I have to live with it, broken, for the rest of my life, might I at least be able to get some semblance of peace from it, that I’ve finally won something? 

 

_ Doctor’s Note: This piece was written in such a different tone that we confronted Dean Winchester about it. However, he is unresponsive to his own name. His mannerisms differ as well, and a closer scan of his brain revealed completely different chemical levels. We believe that this is one of Dean’s “alters”. We are not sure if it is the only one. _


	11. The End

**Found in the asylum records- no label.**

 

This is my final entry. I know, I’ve been stupid. I’ve done things, ridiculously clingy and desperate things. Desperate for validation, I would spout nonsense, anything to keep you around, anything to grab back some of my control. No one’s listening anymore. It doesn’t matter. 

 

I’ll rot here in this prison, succumb to their whim, let them guide me like a puppet. I allow them complete control. I live for them now, no longer myself. It’s okay, I deserve it, after all of the pain and hurt that I’ve caused. 

 

It was okay, I guess. Some of my writings I’m incredibly proud of. Still others, I can’t even bring myself to look at. Some have potential for sense, if I could only go back and tweak one word, a small phrase. It is much the same with life, I realize. Much the same with  _ my  _ life.

 

There are some of my writings that will never see the light of day. I have eradicated them, ripping them from this world. There are others that I wish had never seen the light of day, but it is too late now, and they are out there.

 

In the end, I have said all that I needed to say. I have done much, and while I appear psychotic to most, I’m not really. You should give my kind of thinking a try sometime. See just how dark the world around you really is.

 

I wouldn’t have made it this long without you, Cas. You were the light to my dark, you kept our balance. My short time with you was the best I had ever had. Thank you. 

 

That’s all for now,

Dean Winchester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around, guys.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so like, I should explain. The admirer is Dean's insanity, his fear, self loathing, and internalized love for Cas. Dean gave it a whole separate personality, to keep the guilt from himself. I felt like Dean would also be a little messed up after his whole life (the family business) and after some mild speculation, this fic was born. (For some reason this is appearing at both the end of the first chapter and the end of the work as a whole for me, so I apologize for the inconvenience.)


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